


Deadly Malnutrition: A Fine Dining AU

by mellostopheles



Category: Deadly Premonition | Red Seeds Profile
Genre: Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Black Comedy, Gen, Multi, Parody
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:34:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23501683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellostopheles/pseuds/mellostopheles
Summary: After an unsuccessful application to join the FBI, Francis York Morgan sets his sights on a different agency, and ends up as the most ambitious member the FDA has ever had. His dream of solving a murder case is finally teased when a series of deaths get dropped on the FDA, thanks to a suspected toxin giving people fatal food poisoning, nicknamed the Raincoat Killer (and you don't want to know why!). York finds a lead in suddenly popular restaurant The Greenvale, close to where the victims spent their last few days, and hurries across the country to chase it down. From there, it's one mess after another, as the whole thing spirals out of control for everyone involved!
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a while since I wanted to work on a longfic, but this idea stuck with me, and I fancied writing something light, just for fun. The story basics are laid out, but I welcome anyone's opinions on what the characters should be forced to deal with. I can't promise I'll update quickly, but I hope you enjoy!

“Agent York, are you paying attention?”

York looked up from his lap, where he had been staring at the back of a DVD case. The Tom & Jerry movie. He had been scrutinising the description with the same heart and sincerity of a Classics professor interrogating the Epic of Gilgamesh. Or a stoner gazing with loving confusion at the McDonalds drive in menu.

“I’m sorry, have we moved on?” York’s boss tightened his stance, breathing sharply through his nose. A gesture York recognised in him and several of his other higher ups at the agency.

“No, I’m afraid we’re still discussing the dead girl.”

York glanced towards the whiteboard at the front of the room. The details were grim. This poor girl was merely the latest victim in a series of unfortunate deaths that had cropped up around the country lately. The link between the cases was shaky at best.

“Forgive me if someone already suggested it, but…” York flicked his eyes back towards his boss. “This might be a job better suited to the FBI.”

“Agent York,” his boss hissed, rubbing the tender spot between his eyebrows. “I’m not sure what your schoolboy obsession is with our cousins in the bureau, but there are some things we’re capable of handling ourselves. Need I remind you of the important work we do here?”

“No, thank you.” _I’m well aware of my own work_ , York didn’t add. At least, not out loud. He couldn’t stop himself from sharing the thought privately.

“Very well, then,” his boss said, with a sigh. One of the many symptoms of working with Francis York Morgan. “We’re not getting paid to sit around, dreaming about cartoon shows. The Food and Drug Administration keeps the people of our fair nation _alive!_ ”

“Some of us more than others,” York muttered into his lap. Nowhere in the job application had it said federal agents couldn’t be childish. He’d checked.

Francis York Morgan (33)

[FDA Agent, Lovable Nuisance]

“They call it the Raincoat Killer, Zach.”

York was in his car. The windows were down, the early summer air was streaming in, the _Halloween_ theme was blaring, and they were doing one hundred miles an hour. Traffic rules, York believed, were for the public.

“I’ve seen the photos. It’s a hell of a poison. If it is a poison.” He was referring to the thing that had landed the dead girl on his boss’ white board yesterday. A toxic something-or-other that had already claimed a handful of victims, and those were the ones that the FDA knew about. The reason why this had become his problem was simple enough. The link, the only link, that anyone had been able to find between the victims, outside of the messy nature of their deaths, was that they had all travelled through the same area a day or two before they died. That area being an unimpressive shoulder of Washington state. York had done a little research and discovered that the one cherry on the plain cheese sandwich that was that corner of the country was a series of write ups on foodie blogs. They all lauded the same restaurant: a place called The Greenvale.

Interestingly enough, the place had been open for years, but its glowing reviews and hungry sycophants were much more recent, only cropping up in the past six months. The first death had happened a little over five months ago. It painted an interesting picture. York certainly couldn’t prove that all the victims had eaten there, had heard of the place, or that they could even pronounce the name. He just had a hunch.

That hunch had been enough for his boss to slap the whole mess square in his lap. He had been happy to wash his hands of the tangled lack of leads. York was a lot more optimistic.

“This case could be our chance, Zach!” he said happily, more to himself than anything else. No human being could hear him over the screech of John Carpenter’s icy piano. “If we can just get to the bottom of it before someone else swoops in, we’ll be on top of the world.”

The problem with being an FDA agent was that anything too juicy was immediately gobbled up by a more important agency. York was stuck with handling cases where gobbling up something juicy was the worst thing to have happened. He often found himself tempted to undersell the severity of a case if he thought he had a chance of solving it on his own. So far, it was a plan that had not worked out well for him. Maybe this time would be different.

No-one had been able to prove that the series of deaths had been malicious, which was the only reason the FBI weren’t swarming all over them like ants on a picnic. The case had been bouncing around the FDA offices because they presented like intense, and suspiciously similar, cases of food poisoning. York’s boss was expecting him to do some digging and come back with a crate of tainted beef and a guilty-faced grill cook. It was hardly crime of the century stuff. Still, York was hopeful. Hopeful that this series of accidental poisonings might be far worse than anyone realised. The work of a real piece of shit, one that he would get a nice bonus and a promotion for hunting down. It was a simple dream.

“You just wait and see!”

York tightened his hands around the steering wheel, grinning widely at the road ahead. They were almost at their destination. Three days since leaving Maryland, sleeping in roadside motels and shovelling expired vending machine snacks into his mouth, and York found himself surrounded by the wafting smell of pine trees and mountain air. The Greenvale was positioned in such a way that hundreds of travellers ended up going past every week. It was a stroke of luck for the owners, if not downright suspicious.

Finally surrendering to common sense, York began to slow his car to a saner speed. He didn’t want to send his beauty barrelling into the trees, no matter how good they smelled.

A couple of hours later, York was parked up outside a tall house with balconies full of flowers. The sign outside said it was a B&B. There was something about a B&B that appealed to him. The sense that you were a new lodger in a friendly stranger’s house, one who insisted on bringing you cups of coffee and politely begging you not to take up four pages in their guestbook. It was almost parental.

“When in Rome…” York muttered, making his way up the steps.

Inside, the place was cosier than a home-cooked meal. There were plant pots splattered all about, with cute red flowers growing all over the place, even on the front desk. The bell to ring for service was hidden underneath a particularly intrusive leaf, and York had to push it aside to give the thing a ring. There was no sudden flurry of activity, and he was left wondering if the place was even open. The front door being unlocked no longer seemed too convincing.

As he waited, he admired the array of pictures decorating the wall behind the desk. Lots of old photos, black and white, showing various different people in the prime of their lives.

“All old by now, I bet…” York muttered to himself. “Zach’s really more sentimental than I am, though.”

His mumbling was interrupted when, at last, a woman shuffled out from a door at the back of the room. She positioned herself behind the desk, blinking up at him from behind her glasses. York struggled to make eye contact. Not for any personal reason. The old woman was so hunched over that her face almost disappeared behind the waist-high desk. York made a mental note not to require anything on a high shelf during his stay.

“Can I help you, dear?” she asked, the traditional sweet old lady voice a perfect match for her gingerbread cottage appearance. York smiled. He was eager to make a good impression, especially if he turned out to have some questions for her down the line. After all, some former guests of hers might have made his boss’ wall of fame.

“Hello. I’m Special Agent Francis York Morgan, but you can call me York. Everyone does.” And anyone who didn’t immediately got knocked off his Christmas card list. Which, after a few years on the road for work, was a heavy-duty list. He had to find some way to make cuts.

“Oh, my! An FBI agent!” The woman gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. “Whatever has happened to earn us a visit from the FBI?” York cleared his throat.

“No… I’m not an FBI agent,” he clarified, talking into his chest. “I’m actually with the FDA.” As he watched her face relax, he quickly added: “Not that that makes my work here, or my position as a federal agent, any less special. I do have an important job to do.”

“I’m sure you do,” she said sweetly, adopting that special grandmother tone of voice. The same one an older relative might use to assure you that you are just as handsome as the other boys at school. Yes, regardless of what that mean girl in your English class has to say about it. And don’t you just look _so_ handsome in your new blazer?

It was not York’s favourite response when explaining his job.

“What can I call you?” he asked, swinging back towards small talk. The old woman smiled, leaning forward over the desk. She might as well be resting her chin on it, York restrained himself from saying. That thought was a little mean even to share with Zach.

“I’m Polly,” she said. “Polly Oxford. I run this place by myself. Welcome to the Great Deer Yard Bed and Breakfast!”

Polly Oxford (80)

[B&B Owner, Accidental Flirt]

“By yourself?” York asked in disbelief. Admittedly, the place hadn’t seemed huge from the outside, but he had a hard time imagining an eighty-year-old was capable of running for a bus, let alone running a business all by herself.

“I’m single, yes,” Polly said, allowing herself a demure giggle. “Oh, but I still love my dear husband very much, even if he is no longer with us. I’m afraid I’m not looking for anything at the moment.” York found himself stuck for words. He supposed Polly must have misinterpreted him, assuming his shock was at the thought of a good woman going to waste, rather than concerned amazement that she was keeping a whole B&B ticking over on her own. He wasn’t going to push the point.

“Well… at any rate, Polly, do you have any spare rooms?”

“Yes, you’re in luck. We’re completely empty at the moment!” She said it with such pride that York couldn’t help but give her a weak smile. At least the situation had worked out for him. Polly turned to a board behind her and grabbed a key from one of the hooks. “You can take the Red Room,” she said. “I usually let that out to our more passionate guests. I get that kind of feeling from you, Mr. Morgan.”

Please don’t expect any kind of feeling from me, York thought.

He let her walk him up the stairs, staying vigilant in case her frail legs suddenly gave out and sent her tumbling into him. They stopped outside of a door at the end of the corridor, which she opened. The room inside was much what he had been expecting. A comfy, slightly musty, sitting room feel, with a squishy bed in one corner that was vastly too large for the room it found itself in. Almost all of the furnishings were red or pink.

“Here you are, dear,” Polly said, dropping the key into his outstretched hand. “Make yourself at home. Please come down if you’d like a cup of coffee or something to eat. I can give you some information on the local sights as well, if you’d like?”

“Thank you, Polly,” York said. “I’ll do that.” She nodded, before heading for the door. York made sure it was locked behind her. She seemed like the kind of host who might forget about the concept of privacy.

With the door shut, York felt the weight of miles and miles of driving finally hit him. He staggered over to the bed, collapsing spread-eagled on the ugly daisy-patterned cover, and let out a long sigh.

“This case, I can feel it,” he said to himself. “This case is going to be the real deal!”


	2. Chapter 2

York treated himself to a shower and a change of clothes before thinking about checking out The Greenvale. Travelling with him was exclusively a nightmare scenario, thanks to his habit of packing twelve times more clothes than anyone would need for any given trip. There was no variety, either, which meant that even in unseasonably warm weather, he would be sweating through his shirts. A past trip to New Orleans to figure out whether a virus outbreak was down to the mystery meat at a certain hole in the wall had led to York almost passing out in his wool suit. Zach had not been impressed with him. Successfully proving that crocodile burgers were giving people a fatal case of the shits did little to make him feel better.

“What do you think of this, Zach?” York asked of his lifelong confidante, stepping out of the bathroom in a bright pink suit. He brushed off the dour response, adjusting his tie in the small mirror on top of the dressing table. Whenever Zach knocked his fashion sense, York told himself that it was just Mr. Jealousy talking. This allowed them to enjoy a good relationship.

Heading over to the restaurant right away was probably not the best way to do things. Certainly not the official way to do things. There were channels, as York’s boss would often remind him, and touching base with the local health inspectors should be step one. It would give him a base of authority, support, and a lot of other boring things that he didn’t care enough about. Going to see the probable cause behind a series of messy deaths sounded a lot more interesting. Besides, he wanted to get a feel for the place, and the people who worked there.

York trotted down the stairs with an eager smile on his face. He was excited for what he had already decided was going to be his big break, and was determined that nothing would stop him today. It was anticlimactic when, the second his foot settled onto the carpet at the bottom of the staircase, Polly called out to him from across the room.

“There you are, dear!” she said, her voice as sweet as sugar. York begrudgingly went over to say good morning. “I wanted to ask you, who was that you were talking to this morning? I was sure I heard you having a conversation.”

“Zach,” York said. “No need to worry. He’s on the case with me.”

“There are two of you, oh my!” Polly shook her little silver head. “Something must have gone terribly wrong for someone, mustn’t it?”

“That’s what I’m here to find out.” York let his eye wander past her to the coffee maker sitting on a sideboard in the dining room, tempting him through the open doorway. “Say, Polly. Could I ask you for a cup of coffee?”

“Of course! That’s part of my job, and it’s a part I love. Keeping nice young men like you all perked up! I think it keeps me young, too.” York said nothing as she wobbled off into the dining room. He hoped the rictus grin on his face said it all for him.

A few minutes later, he was sitting at a cosy table in the corner of the dining room, pouring milk into his coffee and trying not to dribble any on the tablecloth. Polly had sat down opposite him without any invitation. He found himself wishing the table was a little longer. As it was, she wasn’t too far from resting her head in his lap. Cosy indeed. It occurred to him that he might as well take the opportunity to ask her about the area. There had to be some other sights to see, and he wasn’t all work and no play, after all. At the very least, he wanted to know somewhere around here where he could stock up on junk food.

“Polly, do you know about any good places to eat in the area?”

“I’m not sure what you’re implying, Mr. Morgan, but –”

“Food places,” York said, louder, rushing to cut her off. “Something cheap will do.”

“Oh! Yes, yes of course.” Polly adjusted her glasses, recovering from whatever she thought she’d heard. “We do have one very good restaurant nearby. The Greenvale, it’s called. It’s such a fancy place, and becoming more popular all the time. Even tourists are coming to eat there!” Well, that answered one question. Still, York didn’t think he’d be patronising the place he was fairly sure had been killing off its customers like cockroaches in a kitchen.

“Anywhere else?”

“There is a nice place down the road a way,” Polly said, looking as if remembering more than one restaurant was a great effort. York sipped his coffee as he waited for details. “It’s called, uh, oh yes! The Milk Barn. Yes, there’s a sweet little cow outside, for the children. It’s mostly for families, you see. I don’t suppose you have a family, Mr. Morgan?”

Presumably she meant that he hadn’t brought a cute little nuclear unit along with him on this work trip, rather than trying to imply that he was on track to die alone. Regardless of how it had sounded. Either way, York couldn’t pretend that he had a button-nosed housewife back home waiting for him.

“I don’t have any children,” he said, coyly. Polly giggled to herself, and he decided to make tracks. “Anyway, thank you for the coffee, Polly. I’ll see you later.” He got up from the table as she began to protest, painting pictures of fried eggs and bacon stacked high on plates. Pancakes, pastries, thick loaves of toast. He shouldn’t start the day on an empty stomach, she insisted.

York didn’t have the heart to tell her that he had already eaten a two-day-old egg sandwich that had been percolating in his suitcase before he’d left his room.

After eating everything in Polly’s fridge, and shocking the old woman with the depths of his stomach, York made a beeline for his car. He didn’t want to risk getting dragged into another conversation. Especially not after spending a whole forty-five minutes longer on breakfast than he’d intended. Zach was probably already waking up, and York wanted to introduce himself to the restaurant staff unsupervised.

When York finally found the place, he concluded that there was something off about The Greenvale. Outside of the number of deaths it might be linked to. The building looked like, if it had been a person, it would have tried to move between three different cliques in high school before slowly descending into a plastic surgery addiction in its mid-thirties. It was obvious it had not started life as a restaurant. There were no large windows to display the diners alluringly like fish in an aquarium. The walls were wood panelled on the outside, and the large, forest green sign above the doors bearing the name of the restaurant was clearly newer than its surroundings. York had a few questions to ask about the place’s history. If he had time left after grilling the staff.

There were more surprises inside. The restaurant opened with a mahogany-topped bar which, come evening, was presumably the life and soul of this tiny town crammed up against a major highway. For now, it was deserted. York’s eyes moved from the bar to an empty space which, ludicrously, was probably laid out for dancing. There was even a narrow stage with a lonely microphone squeezed into an alcove overlooking the inexplicable dancefloor. Past that, there were dark tables with fat, red leather chairs crowded around them. There was no-one sitting, presumably due to the early hour.

“This place must not have much of a breakfast menu,” York muttered.

Behind the back row of tables, at last, was a door that could only lead into the kitchen. York, grinning, made his way towards it. As he threw the door inward, he heard a loud gasp, followed by the head of the only person inside swivelling towards him.

“What are you doing in here?” she cried out. York had to take a moment to find his bearings. The woman, mid-twenties from the look of her, was brandishing a knife. He decided not to hold it against her, as the intended victim was presumably the large stack of carrots piled up beside her. As she lowered her weapon, York was able to come to terms with what had actually startled him. She was very pretty. York had always had a soft spot for blondes. Even one like this, who looked like she wanted to kill him. Perhaps especially.

“I’m sorry, where are my manners,” York said, pretending for a moment that he hadn’t thrown them out of the car window on his way into town, like the start to every investigation. “I’m Special Agent Francis York Morgan, but you can call me York. Please.”

“Uh… the FBI?” The woman hesitated, then rushed to put the knife back on the side. “What does the FBI want with a place like this?” York clicked his tongue. Oh goody, his favourite part again.

“Actually,” he said, “I’m with the FDA. Not the FBI. I’m sorry for the confusion, but I’m still a federal agent.”

“Oh sh– uh. What are you doing here?” She seemed more afraid than before. Which made sense, actually. To someone working in the food service industry, a visit from the FDA was a sure sign that they needed to learn how to file an unemployment form fast.

“Don’t worry, for now this is just a routine information gathering exercise. Can I assume you’re in charge here?” He watched as the woman smiled, her nose wrinkling slightly at his suggestion.

“I’m afraid not,” she said. “Actually, I’m the Sous-Chef here. My name is Emily Wyatt.”

Emily Wyatt (26)  
[Sous-Chef, Terrible Cook]

“Emily, it’s nice to meet you.”

“Uh-huh,” Emily said, putting her hands on her hips. “Now tell me. How can I actually help you?”

York took a look around the kitchen. The place seemed clean enough. Well-looked after. It was hard to believe he might be looking at patient zero for a rash of poisonings. Accidental or otherwise. Emily was keeping an eye on him, he noticed. He sensed that he would not be invited to rifle through the cupboards.

“Where is the chef?” he asked. “Presumably, if you are the Sous-Chef, that means there’s a head chef around here somewhere. I’ve met a lot of chefs in my time, and they’re a proud bunch. I doubt they would leave their kitchen in your hands.”

“You’d be right,” Emily said, raising her eyebrows. She was wearing a little smirk, and York got the sense she might be making fun of him somehow. Whether she was or not, he enjoyed the chance to see her smile. “Actually, the chef’s in the back with the other member of the kitchen staff.” She flicked her wrist towards a door hidden against the far wall of the kitchen, partially obscured by stacked boxes of beans. “They went in there a while ago to find some seasoning. We like to prepare for the lunch rush in advance.”

“Thank you, Emily.” Uninvited, York marched past her to the door she had indicated. He could hear her begin to argue behind him as he went, but he wouldn’t be stopped. He already had a picture of the head chef in his mind. It had been percolating since he’d been given the case. A big man, fiercely proud, but clumsy enough for mistakes to be a part of his everyday life. Maybe Italian. Something about the name The Greenvale had made York think about Italian food. As soon as the idea had occurred to him, he’d drawn a crude moustache on the composite he was forming in his head.

Behind the door was a dark and distinctly unappetising room full of shelves, loaded with boxes and tins. Pretty much what you’d expect to see in a food storage room. It was rare to find anything more exciting than this. Once, York had seen a whole alligator hung up on the wall of a meat warehouse, and his expectations for such places had been impossibly high ever since.

Tucked behind an overladen shelf, York could make out the strong, meaty back of a man who worked in food service. The man in question turned as York approached, and in the delightful moment that their eyes first met, York was able to confirm his moustache theory.

“What do you think you’re doing back here?” The man barked at him, and York fished around in his jacket for his badge. He expected that a simple explanation would not do this time.

“I’m FDA Special Agent Francis York Morgan,” he said, while the man eyed him up and down like he was working out all his prime cuts. “Though I insist you call me York. I’m looking for the head chef of The Greenvale. Is that you?”

“Yeah… that’s me.” The chef stepped into the light, revealing the full glory of a long black apron tied around his muscular body. He looked more like a weightlifter than a chef, but York was openminded.

“And you are…?”

“George Woodman. But I’d insist you call me…” He grinned briefly, mockingly echoing York’s own precise introduction. “Chef Woodman.”

George Woodman (42)  
[Head Chef, Toxic Manchild]

“Well, Chef Woodman,” York began. “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but the FDA has linked your restaurant to several suspicious deaths in the area. I was hoping we could talk about that.”

“If you’re implying that there’s some kind of problem with my restaurant!” George snarled, stepping towards York like he was about to throw down the first move in a wrestling match. “The Greenvale is the best restaurant for miles! And that’s all thanks to me, and my work! Now get out. Out of my kitchen!” York lazily evaded the aggressive sweep of George’s hand as it came towards him. Perhaps in another life, he might have been a ballerina. Alas.

“I was speaking to Emily in the kitchen,” he said, and he took note of the way George’s hands tensed into tight fists at the sound of his Sous-Chef’s name. “She mentioned you came through here with another staff member? Perhaps we could all talk together.”

On cue, there came a squeak from behind the shelves, and another face appeared, sticking its nose around the corner like a nervous squirrel. The man, the legendary final member of the kitchen staff trio, straightened up and cleared his throat. He edged around George’s burly figure, and into sight.

“H-hello,” he said. York was surprised by the contrast between the two men. This new addition to the cast was slight and slender, a waif compared to his culinary superior. He had thick dark curls combed away from his forehead, and was wearing a pair of glasses that had clearly been fogged up until a moment ago. It was hot in the storage room, York supposed.

“And you are?” York asked, hoping this one would introduce himself with less fuss than the last.

“I’m Thomas,” the man said, smiling shyly. He adjusted his glasses and glanced at the floor. “Thomas MacLaine. I work in the kitchen assisting the chef, but then, it sounds like you already knew that.”

Thomas MacLaine (28)  
[Kitchen Staff, Budding Wallflower]

“It’s nice to meet you, Thomas,” York said, earning himself another brief peek of smile. “Now, I’d suggest we all go through and sit at one of your tables and talk this whole thing out. The FDA takes food-related deaths very seriously.”

“You want to know what I take seriously?” George snapped, stomping towards York until he was forced to back out through the door into the kitchen. “People coming into my kitchen and accusing me of making food lousy enough to kill people! I’ve got no time for this so-called FDA investigation. Why don’t you come back when you’ve got a warrant?”

With that, George placed a hand on York’s shoulder, spun him around on his heels, and forced him to march out of the kitchen. He caught Emily’s eye on the way, and the two shared a second-long look of disbelief before she vanished from view. Seconds later, York found himself standing outside The Greenvale, with nothing but all the information needed to leave a particularly stinging Yelp review. Sadly, not as much of what he needed for a federal investigation.

“I don’t want to see your face again. Do you understand me?” George snarled. Without leaving room for a reply, he slammed the door shut behind him, and stalked back inside his restaurant. The echo of his footsteps disappeared, and soon there was nothing more than the faint sound of birds chirping in the nearby trees.

“Huh,” York said, brushing the dust off his jacket. “I suppose I’d better get my hands on some paperwork.”


End file.
